


my body is a number

by santamonicayachtclub



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: College, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 12:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15796548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/pseuds/santamonicayachtclub
Summary: There’s been a Rhett-shaped gap in his life for almost a week now and it’s been getting harder and harder for Link to ignore certain possibilities this opens up to him.





	my body is a number

 

There’s something transgressive about perching on Rhett’s bed without Rhett there.

Link eyes it from across the dorm once he closes the door, gaze dating furtively between his own neatly made upper bunk and the rumpled mess of Rhett’s lower one. Normally he wouldn’t be leaking hesitation from every pore because _normally_ he’d think nothing of bounding over to pelt Rhett with a pillow or a barrage of questions just to annoyingly wake him up before the dining hall stops serving breakfast. 

But Rhett is in Slovakia, several time zones and lightyears away.

And instead of being able to complete his usual morning routine after his first two classes, Link is alone with his thoughts and a two-hour break until his next one. There’s been a Rhett-shaped gap in his life for almost a week now and it’s been getting harder and harder for Link to ignore certain possibilities this opens up to him.

Rhett is in Slovakia, Gregg is in class, and Link is very tentatively easing himself onto the edge of Rhett’s bed.

Settling as much as he can, knees together until he slides his feet against the rug, slides the zipper of his jeans down just as slowly. Okay.

Parted open in a V, rubbing his fingers just there. Hard, under the cloth. _Okay_.

Hair in his face like he can hide from his own scrutiny, breaths coming too deep already. This is supposed to be simple, taking the edge off and blunting it for a good long time; all he has to do is pretend it’s like any other time he would get himself off. With a sharp inhale, Link shoves his jeans off his hips, kicking them down around his ankles with a rasp of denim.

Letting his eyes drift shut, wetting his lips habitually, taking it further than over-the-clothes groping. Letting the warmth of Rhett's hands ruck up his shirt and slip under the barrier of material. Across his collarbone, straight down the middle with a fingertip. In his mind, Rhett's forefinger and thumb gently, experimentally pinch at a nipple.

Link hisses out loud because he can _feel_ it, can feel it because he's _done_ it. Mimicking the movements, letting them happen, drawing them out of his head and making them real.

Rhett's hand is gently brushing his cheek, running a thumb along his jawline, and then Rhett is leaning in to _kiss_ him. Warm and soft and careful prods of tongue--and though he doesn't quite realize it, Link's lips part open a little, as if actually letting Rhett into his mouth. As if he can _taste_ him, right now. 

Like flint on rock, sensation goes sparking across his nerves, hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and Link is curling a hand around his thigh and his tongue around another that isn't even there. It’s all-consuming: the way Rhett smells, his heat when he's against Link, embracing him, stroking him, tongue filling up his mouth and scent filling up his head, bright gray-green eyes darkened and heavily lidded. Hints of red in his cheeks, ghost of a smile from the Rhett painted larger than life on the backs of his eyelids. Thumbing his chin, cradling his jawline, pushing his head up and back.

And Link's head _does_ go back, soaking up the phantom feel of Rhett's mouth on his neck, kissing and applying light suction. Link squirms in his seat, left hand up and splayed over his exposed throat. His other slides off his thigh, down between his legs, lower still where he can grip-squeeze the edge of the mattress between excitement-shaky fingers, breathing heavily. His wrist _presses_ against the heat and hardness of his cock, still caught beneath cotton, and he swears Rhett can hear his gasp all the way in Slovakia.

Rocking forward against his wrist, which could be _Rhett's_ wrist, almost without consciously doing it. Impulse taking over, seeking out that friction, and Link thinking scattershot thoughts of longer fingers in his hair, a larger body pressed up behind him, the heat of Rhett's front pressed all along his back.

They've known each other longer than Link's known any of the girls he's ever done anything with, know each other so well that sometimes a thought will bloom in Rhett’s mind and bubble into Link’s before either of them have a chance to open their mouths. Sometime over the past several months, Link shifted from relishing that to safeguarding against it. If he doesn't, one day Rhett’s going to catch a waft of this particular thought and everything will be different between them.

Everything will change and then Link won’t know who he is anymore.

But at the same time, he can’t stop himself from wondering about it, from having dreams about it, from waking up in a breathless-sticky cloud of dissipating splendor and shame. Consumed with the agony of wanting to _know._

If he pushes his hips back, he can almost feel Rhett there instead of the mattress, hard and hot and making him shudder uncontrollably. In the confines of his own head, it’s easy to imagine he wouldn't lock up and start stuttering if it were actually happening. Rhett bracketing him from behind, locking strong arms around him, nosing into his hair and flatly lapping at his nape. 

Link whines out loud, guilt warring with a deep-seated gratefulness that no one can hear him.

His fingertips drift at his waistband, flexing with indecision. He's damp, heat spreading, cock press-nudging the front of his underwear. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of this ever happening in reality, but somehow he knows just how it would feel, how he would hitch his breath and tremble if Rhett were slowly easing a hand below that last layer of clothing and just resting it there, letting Link squirm under the press of his wide warm palm.

Things happen sudden and sharp in his head, like the pop-flash of magnesium catching images in time.

Rhett behind him. Rhett in front of him. Rhett plunging his tongue into his mouth, leaving tingling brands on the slick insides of his cheeks, over the ridged roof of his mouth, across his own seeking tongue. Rhett's hands on his bare, _bare_ skin. Rhett shoving him up against the wall with Link's arms locked around his neck, his ankles crossed at the small of the back, _clinging_ . Rhett with his chin in his hand, staring down at Link, looking nothing but serious as he holds his hand against Link's cock and lets him push and writhe under it, riding into the pressure as hard as he needs to, as feverish as he cares to be, as _reckless_.

He's rocking in his seat unwittingly, fingers working under the elastic, finally grazing over the head of his arousal. His jeans are still snarled around his ankles and somewhere in there he shucked his shirt off entirely and he can’t make out whether his skin is prickling with embarrassment or eagerness. But when he palms down the length of himself and finally lets himself touch, none of that matters.

Senior year, or maybe junior, he concocted this idea that Rhett could see him when he did this. That the darkened window of the Jacobsons’ storage room next door was really the window of Rhett’s bedroom and that Link, squirming into his fist, had a captive audience each time he touched himself.

The first few times, he’d been so bowled over by his own depravity he’d run into the bathroom to shamefully finish himself off.

Eventually he managed to sufficiently lecture himself on the ridiculousness of that.

By now, he’s outgrown the urge to bolt away from a nonexistent gaze. What hasn’t changed is the fantasy itself. Because that’s what it is, even though it took Link over a year to admit that to himself. He fantasizes about Rhett’s watching him when he’s like this, taking in every lip-bite and whimper and twist of his wrist.

Sometimes when he’s feeling especially daring, he lets his mind wander even more. He tells himself that if Rhett actually did see him like this, he wouldn’t freak out. He conveniently sidesteps the logistics of getting from point A to point B, skipping straight to the part where Rhett’s mouth is hot and soft on his own and their bodies are so tightly entangled he can’t tell where he ends and Rhett begins.

Link whines through clenched teeth. When he bucks into his hand and it makes his underwear shift down a little farther, he lets it.

His gaze flits over to the dorm window, imagining Rhett out there watching. It doesn’t matter that he’d have to be hovering several feet off the ground to do it, the concept is all Link needs. He wants Rhett to look at him with those sharp, keen eyes that seem to take in everything. So many of his fantasies revolve around seeing that gaze focused on him and only him, like he's everything there is to see.

Doing this in Rhett’s bed was a terrible idea. Now he’s forever going to associate it with this; he won’t be able to look at Rhett stretched out in his bunk without imagining Rhett reaching over and touching him the way he's touching him now in his mind's eye, stroking his stomach and kissing his neck and curling that strong hand around him and... _God_.

His breath hitches. He tries stuffing his fist against his mouth, but doesn’t stop squeezing himself in his hand, slick with a steady-warm stream of precome and want. Link's toes are digging into the carpet, hips canting in a rhythmic back-forth motion, the mattress giving faint protests in time with his movements.

His hot cheeks have caught the rest of his face like a brushfire, but he shoves his underwear the rest of the way off anyway.

This...is better. He doesn't care how he might look, stealing glances towards the window and bare-assed in bed. Jacking off for Rhett, who he’s grateful isn’t there but also desperately wishes _were_ there, making him arch his back and spread his thighs and struggle to fight down moans _._

Going slow is fine, when you're being cautious, when you're with someone and you're just taking it a step at a time. But Link is young and impulsive and he knows his own touch, knows what he likes and how hard and how fast and once he starts, he can't stop. Legs drawing in closer to the bed, leaning over as his shoulders hunch and the muscles in his arm tauten.

He has time to get this out of his system. Rhett won’t be back from overseas for weeks, that’s plenty of time for Link to shake some sense back into himself. By the time Rhett returns, Link will have hit the reset button on his psyche good and hard. He won’t be tangled up in daydreams and fever dreams about Rhett looking at him with that wicked glint in his eyes, about Rhett’s mouth hitching into a half smile before he kisses him, about Rhett touching him and Link flying apart so fast it’s almost scary but also _incredible._

He’ll get all of this out of his system and the next time he sees Rhett, everything will be better.

Link’s free hand clenches the edge of the mattress until the knuckles are bloodless, until they _ache_ , head ducking forward and hips heatedly snapping into his grip. Rhett’s kisses blaze against his mouth, his jaw, down his throat, across his chest; Rhett's hands are everywhere, Rhett's stroking him, Rhett puts his _mouth_ on him--

“ _Fuck.”_

Link's back hits the bed, body bowing up, shaking hopelessly and straining. He’s still jerking himself hard as he comes, his other hand slapping over his mouth and shoulder blades pressing into the mattress. Everything goes bright red-white-dark and he’s holding his breath without even realizing it, but it just seems to make everything that much more intense as each wave of pleasure bowls him over and drags him down.

He's a mess, that’s the first thine Link registers as he settles back into himself. Still shaking against the covers and his own hand, still squeeze-stroking slowly even though his fingers and navel are spattered with warmth.

On the backs of his eyelids, Rhett is still watching him open-mouthed from the window.

Link squirms fitfully as he comes down to earth again, spine smoothing out, heat starting to dissipate only to surge right back through him to the thought of even _trying_ to look Rhett in the eye after this. He splays his clean hand on his chest, brow furrowing when his thumb brushes wetness.

Just as his eyes are slitting back open, he eases them closed and shifts contentedly on top of Rhett’s duvet. Letting himself drift and imagine and prolong the moment a little longer.

He can see Rhett there at the window, writing something, scribbling. His hair is sticking up and he looks reddened now. Then he’s stepping closer to the window, pieces of unlined paper in his hands. Link can feel his heart lodge up in his throat, swallowing convulsively as he imagines Rhett's hand splaying, shoving the first piece up so Link can see it:

 **_That was_** , in big, bold black ink.

And when Rhett's hand pulls back, the note slides down, swings off the glass, fluttering and swirling down out of sight like some sad, errant leaf.

The path of it brings Link's gaze directly across Rhett's fly--which is undone, an open gap of rumpled jean material and the peek of his boxers underneath.

Link turns his face into Rhett’s pillow, eyes still tightly shut.

The next sheet: **_the hottest thing_ **

Sheet after sheet, slapped up, pressed, released. Falling, drifting, vanishing one after the other.

**_I've EVER_ **

And one more: **_Seen. Ever._ **

Rhett looks crumpled, his shoulders are rising and falling quickly as if his breathing is just as labored as Link's. That last page is still pressed to the glass, along with Rhett's other hand. Rhett's dark, half-mast stare is boring straight into him, mouth working as if he’s about to speak but the words are caught in his throat.

Link opens his eyes.

The window is empty, framing a square slice of sky and nothing more.

Something deep in the pit of Link’s stomach curdles. Rhett’s absence gnaws at him so keenly it makes him want to curl up in his blankets and disappear.

Instead, he draws on his clothes. He strips the bed in an almost trancelike state and crams the sheets into his laundry basket. Then he locks himself in the bathroom with the shower full blast until he can pretend he’s forgotten. It’s such a regressive move he would normally be disgusted with himself, if he hadn’t already reached his capacity for self-loathing.

He hasn’t taken the edge off or even blunted it. If anything, it stabs at him more than ever now, sharp with guilt and shame and selfish, solipsistic want.

For the first time ever, Link skips class.


End file.
